Lifebinder
by PlaidButterfly
Summary: After the Lich King exploits a new universe for soldiers to raise, Luke Skywalker finds himself in more trouble than he ever imagined.


_Author's notes:  
I'm just going to go ahead and apologize for this story in advance because not only is it a crossover, it's one that attempts to take itself seriously, and that is terrible. But hopefully entertaining to read._

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There was enough time for proper celebrations, despite the looming threat of the remains of the second Death Star being pulled into Endor's forest moon to destroy the lush ecosystem there. Even with the evacuations there was time enough for what felt like an endless cycle of celebratory dinners. Endor was theirs, and the Empire would quickly be too busy to even bother about thinking of taking it back. And, Luke wouldn't lie to himself, he was quite happy about the victory as well – bittersweet, but still a happiness there.

He just hadn't gotten used to the toasts being for _him_. There was an art to learning how to stand there awkwardly and smile while someone gushed about how you were a savior and hero of the republic, and he hadn't learned it yet, despite having plenty of opportunities. Or perhaps this time it was the raw and sore sadness tugging at his heart that made him want to correct them, and tell them that the honor was his father's, and not his own.

The fact that he had gotten perhaps four hours of sleep likely didn't help, either.

But he brushed off his tunic and washed his face, mostly because this dinner was apparently a formal event, as if the best celebrations came around at least twice (with one of those occasions requiring uncomfortable dress shoes). He was sure the food was good even though he couldn't remember it. The wine, at least, was excellent enough to remember, despite only having a few sips. But wine lead to toast after toast, and as Mon Mothma locked eyes with him and smiled, he only managed a queasy smile back. _Here we go again._

But he only halfway stood up before the effects of the past few days finally got to him – the aching memory of the force-lightning arcing through him, the tightness in his chest both from the smoke and the sight of the funeral pyre – the exhaustion and everything that had caused it.

Luke Skywalker collapsed back into the coldest darkness he had ever known.

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_The leaves beneath them, coated abruptly with frost, crunched underneath each heavy boot as they marched forward. The soft glow of the tear was enough in the forest night, magic gleaming as it exploited where two universes chafed against one another, the fabric of existence growing thin enough to pry apart._

_And the Damned marched out, chainmail slapping bare bone. The magic was enough to sustain them, but not for long, and the robed Cultists knew as much._

"_No – not those." One of the Damned had clawed at a ragdoll-limp, ursine corpse. The Cultist had to glare before the skeleton finally let the Ewok drop. Another held up the bone-white helm of stormtrooper. "Better – but no. There."_

_They crowded around the charred remains of the funeral pyre, almost drooling in anticipation. The power was hidden, but obvious to them; that was what the Cultists were most fond of – the secret of twisting majesty in life into something despicable – the knowledge of raising others into undeath._

"_No. Just bring the pieces. The Master has said that he wishes to do this personally," the Cultist murmured dreamily before reaching down and picking up the skull-like helm and dusting some of the ashes so that it gleamed again in obsidian. He turned it around to stare into what the universe had known as the face of Darth Vader, and smiled. After a moment he pulled it forward to whisper, as if giving away a divine secret:_

"_The greatest glory is to live and die in the Master's service."_

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Luke really only knew that it was several days later when he woke up in the medbay because his face was distinctly prickly as he rubbed at his eyes, and Leia was looking less than perfect (which for her was quite substantial) as she dozed in a nearby chair. He heard her yawn lightly as he ran a hand through his hair and tried to shake off the residual sleepiness.

"Wow, Red Squadron's slacking. I expected at least three signs up about how Jedi can't hold their drink," he joked softly. It actually made Leia laugh tiredly.

"It's good to see you awake."

He nodded sleepily in agreement. "How long…?"

"Four days. I've missed four daily briefings, anyway." The amusement seeped out of her tone as she continued. "Everyone was starting to think you were more seriously injured than we'd thought. You've been half-screaming in your sleep, something about how it's so cold – colder than Hoth –"

"I'm fine," he said quickly, even as his gaze unfocused a little.

Yes – colder than Hoth, a different sort of paralyzing cold that seeped into his bones… An iciness he couldn't explain, as much in his soul as in the air. A winter that wouldn't ever thaw, a hopeless tundra – and a castle, maybe, on the horizon – such cruel, tall spires –

"Luke?"

He snapped his head up and smiled. "I'm fine! I'm fine." She stared at him, unconvinced, though now with an unamused older sister's glare. He briefly paused to wonder when he had become the youngest. In fact, he was about to argue – as proof that he really was fine – when the warning klaxon started to wail.


End file.
